Blood Bites and Bourbon
by ItsClydeBitches221B
Summary: Four Jesse/Cass moments taking place during S1E2 "See." Or: Cass is lovesick and Jesse keeps giving him clothes.


One-hundred and nineteen years and Cass is still as damn tactile as he was a century ago, never mind the icy chill of his hands, or the grungy smell that's got nothing to do with being a vamp. He's learned that when he reaches out others tend to pull back—if they're smart, anywhere near approaching sober—and that's just another way life continually kicks him in the ass. He doesn't mind much nowadays. Really and truly.

Makes it all the more of a shock though when the funny preacher reaches for _him_.

Cass stands there, swaying like a fish and probably gapping like one too. Jesse had meandered up just a moment ago, taking a much needed break from those Christianly duties, and before Cass could ask whether he was ready to keel over yet from all that black attire, Jesse had a handle on his own outfit—literally, slipping two fingers into the loop of twine hanging from Cass' waist.

He musters up a grin. "Was' this now? Ye gonna lead this horse to drink?"

Jesse grins in turn, snapping the twine like reins and sending sparks every which way across his skin. Cass can't help the squirm and is forced to roll into it, leaning against the doorjamb just as nonchalantly as he can.

"Lemme guess," Jesse says. "Horse wants something stronger than water?"

"Aye," and Cass twists his fingers into a neck, downing an imaginary bottle.

Jesse is rolling his eyes now, but Cass is hyper aware of the fingers still hovering near the top of his pants, giving gentle, almost unconscious tugs until they're both a little closer than either planned to be.

"Seriously, Cass. Don't you have a belt?"

"No, no. Sad to say the poor farmin' family weren't kind enough to leave a belt out on the ol' clothes line fer Cass."

Another tug, this one sharp and demanding. "You stole these?"

"… borrowed?"

"Borrowed like you did those two crates of wine?"

"Crate and a ' _alf_ ," but Cass is already raising his hands in supplication, exaggeratedly bowing his head in shame but really—bloody hell—it don't feel like exaggeration. Not when Jesse is standing in the blinding sun, his arm reaching through the shadows to where Cass is, and his hand is still, _still_ gripping tight to that twine.

Just reelin' Cass in. Hook, line, and sinker.

"C'mon, preacher man. Forgive me ma' sins?"

That's all it takes. Jesse is grinning again, already nodding, and Cass feel light headed because what if that's really all it takes? This rugged man with a smile just for him, always going on about how he wants to do Good, do Better, literally pulling Cass towards the Light that, yeah, would burn something fierce but looks _oh_ so tempting. A preacher man who should be the most boring asshole to ever get this close, yet Cass is pumped full of adrenaline the likes of which he hasn't felt in decades.

He blinks, realizing Jesse is talking. "Wha?"

"I said I'll buy you one." Jesse shrugs. He doesn't seem to have noticed Cass' lapse. "A belt. No need to pay me back. Can't afford much, but I've got that covered at least."

"Yeh?" Cass swallows hard.

"Yeah. Think of it as a service to the community—we won't have to look at your damn ass all the time."

Cass' mind short-circuits when Jesse gives a final tug, wandering off across the yard where Cass can't follow. He wants to shout questions ( _You've looked?_ ), accusations, even beg for promises, but what he settles for is,

"I've got a freakin' great ass, ya lil' shite! I'll have ya know I put tha 'ass' in 'C _ass_ idy'!"

Jesse raises a hand in acknowledgment and that's more than enough. He comes back hours later with a beaten brown excuse for a belt, but it does the trick, sliding between his palms with an ease that offered too damn much.

Cass wraps it around his waist with thoughts of all the lovely, nasty things he'd like to do to a preacher with it.

* * *

Later with the belt and an actual bottle, Cass watches from the sidelines as Jesse washes away the sins of his flock—beatings, adultery, all sorts of sick thoughts in the back of their heads. Or the front for some. Cass waves them away like flies, focusing in on the strength it takes to dunk each pot-bellied man. The droplets glistening on Jesse's forearms. Even the care with which he does the deed, ensuring that no one stays under too long, that they always have their noses plugged and their eyes screwed tight.

"What stupid wanker doesn't wanna look up at that?" Cass mutters into his drink.

One genius among the lot. Firecracker of a woman with a crop-top and red lips—she keeps her eyes blown wide as she goes under, reaching to slide her arms around Jesse's neck when she's pulled back up. Cass chortles at their flustered preacher and tips his bottle at the girl as she leaves. She winks back. It's the only time he bothers taking his eyes off Jesse.

"Ain't you just a sucker for tha pretty 'ons," he says. Down, down the bourbon goes. "Always were a sentimental one, weren't ya, Cass? Yes, yes. Sen-ti-fucking-mental."

"What's this about you and 'mental'?"

Cass grins, sharp and fast. "Me? Mental? Livin' here? Nooooo." He passes the bottle to Jesse, newly arrived and stretching arms up over his head. Now that there's a sight to see. "You done savin' these cretans or can I expect you to get a few more of 'em all wet? Eh? Eh?" Cass waggles his eyebrows.

"Oddly enough, you're not the first person to say that today." Jesse takes a long swing.

Meanwhile Cass pictures red lips and a confident walk. "Nah, can't expect I am."

"Mmm."

They settle together in the shade, sharing bourbon and begging the Almighty for a breeze. Jesse even gets down on both knees at one point to send up a bonafide prayer and Cass is treated to the delightful curve of his back.

He finally gestures lazily at the water still simmering out in the sun. "How many sins in that there tub do you reckon? Whaddaya do with sin water anyway? Bless it? Boil it? Put it on fer tea?"

Jesse doesn't answer. Cass has long since closed his eyes behind his shades, painfully aware that he's neglected his beauty sleep recently. When the silence continues he just hunkers further down. Probably didn't offend the guy—"wha' kind of preacher are you?" and all that—but Jesse might've fallen asleep. If so, he's the only brilliant bottle in a whole leaking stash.

Cass expects another hour or so of silence and heat.

He doesn't expect a douse of filthy water as Jesse upends the tub over his legs.

" _Ye shite!_ " Cass shrieks. He's out of the chair and pressed against the church faster than any human could ever, something Jesse might have noticed if he wasn't laughing his asshole head off.

"Ah," he says, wiping imaginary tears from his eyes. "I needed that."

Cass scowls and slaps water off his drenched jeans. "Oh did 'ou? So glad one of us is laughin'!"

Jesse doesn't apologize and Cass can't exactly chase him out into the sun. He listens to the "you throw dirty water out with the trash" jibes and does his best to look intimidating. The fact that he _is_ a feral, highly dangerous vampire doesn't seem to help much.

They fix it all with a slap to each back, Cass leaning a little too much into the contact than is necessary. Jesse shakes out his hair and promises him some grub later. Cass jokes that he'd starve without him.

Which isn't too far from the truth. No money and a one-sided promise not to eat your friend's flock sort of lowers your options.

Jesse meanders off with another wave of his hand—what seems to be a Thing with him. Cass is left with a body soaking wet and the only moisture he cares for is what's dotting his neck and cheek.

Jesse was sweating when he shook out his hair. Cass lets it stay; lets it dry.

* * *

"The bloody fooking hell you dooin' up there?"

Jesse looks down from the lamppost to see Cass staring up at him, eyes shielded. He's carrying an oversized, pink parasol.

"… the fuck are you doing with that?"

"I asked 'ou first."

"I asked you second."

Cass throws his hand out in frustration, seems to hiss when it stretches out of the parasol's reach, hides it behind his back, and settles for muttering something at the sidewalk—no doubt unsavory. He finally gives a ridiculously put upon sigh and twirls the parasol for show.

"Lil' Miss Betty? Lives down the street? Huuuuuuge boil all up in 'er face? Got it from 'er."

Cass keeps silent like that somehow answers the question.

"And?" Jesse presses. His thighs are starting to tremble from holding on so long.

"An nothin'. What's your steerin' wheel doin' up on the light?"

Slowly, and with great care for hot metal in the middle of a Texas summer, Jesse rests his forehead against the pole.

"Look," he says. "I won't tell if you won't?"

"… ya, thas' fair."

Cass walks on, periodically spinning the parasol. Jesse is eventually able to drive home.

* * *

About an hour after Cass hears Emily drop another pronouncement—"Seriously, it smells like something died in the church!"—he finds Jesse out near the bar and does everything within his vampiric power to look like he hadn't carved up two asshats with a chainsaw the night before.

Lucky duck for him, Jesse is acting a fool.

"You always pluck at your clothes like tha? New prayin' thing? Havin' a seizure?"

Jesse doesn't have a comeback because he _is_ plucking at his clothes, pulling at his pants with a frustrated motion that feels far too familiar for Cass' liking. He smooths hands over his new belt, slow and calm.

"Feels stiff," Jesse grumbles. Cass is about to make a brilliant and well-timed innuendo when Jesse scratches at the fabric, blinking as something rusty brown flecks into his palm.

He holds the stuff up before his eyes, squinting. "That blood?"

Ah shite.

In his defense, Cass can get a little loopy after he's been shot, committed double asked-for-it murder, and saved a sweet, _sweet_ Man of God's life. He wasn't thinking straight when he cuddled up on said man's firm thigh, skipping all the hard and fast fucking against some random wall and heading straight for the cuddles.

Apparently.

Getting goddamn soft in his old age.

Cass peers exaggeratedly at the flecks. "Blood? _Nah_."

"Pretty sure it is."

"Nooooooo."

"Dammit, Cass, I know blood when I see it."

"Well maybe ya do, but how you gonna' explain it gettin' there, hmm?"

He's safe here at least. That lovely cocktail knocked Jesse out something good and it would take more than a miracle for him to have remembered a single sound or twitch from last night. And regardless of what he comes up with, nothing's going to be as hard to explain as the truth.

"Guess I can't, so how about you explain why you got no shirt instead."

Double shite.

Cass spreads his arms, turning for Jesse's benefit. "An' keep this from the 'hole world! _Crime_ , Reverend. Thas' what it'd be."

Despite the bravado, Cass is stupidly aware that this is the first time Jesse is seeing him bare-skinned, and frankly it's not a whole lot of 'hot damn!' to look at. He's thin for one thing. Freaking rail-like. That's what happens when there's a war on and though being undead gave him more than his fair share of strength, Cass realized quickly that his body wasn't ever going to change. Not much anyway. No taller or buffer or fatter. Just thin lil' Cassidy for the rest of eternity.

He's got his tats of course, and hell if he'll ever regret those, but he is aware that they're not everyone's cup of tea. Especially a preacher's. Even a preacher like Jesse, though he's obviously hoping not.

Doesn't have much hair—again with that no changing thing—and what Cass _can_ speak for is covered under a thin layer of dirt. Drinking their wine is one thing, but using up all the water is something cruel, to say nothing of the fact that Cass' one set of clothes has a tendency to get wrecked.

Which brings him to the real reason for going bare-chested this morning. After that little bloodbath the jeans had been salvageable. The shirts had not.

Cass is running through an excuse when his mouth goes dry. Jesse is slowly and methodically unbuttoning his shirt.

"Uh…" Cass looks around, hoping someone else is there to see what he sees… except when he spots the sweep of collar bones and tanned skin he reconsiders. This is _his_.

Jesse hands him the shirt. "Go on," he says, the smallest smile slipping out. "I know you don't have another. I got plenty."

Cass takes it, trying valiantly not to bury his face in it right there and then. Nose like a bloodhound, sure, but still.

"The literal shirt off ya back?" he says, hoping his voice is more teasing than it sounds to him. Jesse's look says it's not.

"Yeah."

All he does then is slap Cass' shoulder—bare palm against bare skin—and walks away again. Cass is expecting the wave now, but even so he nearly misses it, memorized by the collection of scars spanning Jesse's back. They push and pull under the sun as Jess's hand finally rises high.

"Oh no," Cass whispers. "You aren't boorin', are ye?"

When he slips on the shirt it's large and sweat-stained. Cass can smell bits of his own blood splattered there and he growls low in his throat.

"Not boorin' at _all_."

Fin.


End file.
